It's My Design, My Dear Watson
by CheesyJumpersandJam
Summary: [Crossover of Hannibal and Sherlock]: Recovering from a traumatic experience, Will Watson is introduced to someone who may be able to help: Hannibal Holmes. The man is sophisticated, intelligent, and precise, and it isn't long before he calls Will "friend." But when a new threat comes to London, Will discovers just how "friendly" he can be. [Combined Characters]


**AN: Made for two of my favorite TV shows, this story entwines Hannibal and Sherlock. Obviously, I do not own either. Please read through and tell me what you think! I have a lot of neat ideas coming, so stay tuned! :)**

 **It's My Design, My Dear Watson**

Prologue:

Red. Flashes of red.

They came and went as they pleased, but when they bled across his vision he could feel it. Every streak, running down his eyes like crimson tears.

He could hear them now. The screams. The horrific whimpers of Abigail Hobbs as her father, with eyes like stormclouds, pressed the knife to her jugular vein. He had sneered at him then, his cracked lips sticking to loose strands of his daughter's deep brown hair.

"Don't do this," his voice trembled then. He had never done this before. He had never seen such ferocity in the desperation of the man opposite the blood-bathed kitchen. He held the gun steady, but his eyes would drift to the unmoving form of Abigail's mother, collapsed on the floor.

The Minnesota Shrike. That's what they called him. Responsible for the deaths of eight women, and much more recently, his own wife. But his daughter could be saved.

Abigail would be saved.

She held back tears, her chin wobbling uncontrollably.

"Drop the gun!" Garret Jacob Hobbs demanded. Even now, the man's voice carried a frantic cracked sound. "Drop the gun, or else!" Abigail inhaled sharply, a thin line of red drawn on the side of her exposed neck.

What could he do? He couldn't risk letting Hobbs get away-but at the cost of his daughter?

The front door opened with an aged squeak, and Hobbs's eyes dilated with paralyzing fear. Suddenly, his decision was made clear and he took the shot before Hobbs could inflict more damage, but he couldn't save her the agony.

Hobbs dropped to the floor, his back colliding with the kitchen cabinets as he squeezed the bullet wound, frozen with shock.

Realizing the threat of Hobbs was gone, he lurched forwards, discarding his weapon along the way, diving and soaking his knees in fresh blood as he fought to reach her.

Strings of blood shot like geysers from her throat with every breath she struggled to take. She was drowning in her own blood and losing too much of it too quickly. He forced her head up in his lap, pressing down on her wound and screaming at the top of his lungs for someone to call help.

She grew paler by the second and soon lost consciousness. All he could do was stroke her already blood soaked hair and whisper promises of miracles to her.

"See…"

He had forgotten the dying man in the corner, blood seeping between his clenched fingers. Garret Jacob Hobbs grinned at him, like the maniac he was. "See," he said, blood dribbling down his chin.

And that's when he saw it. The image that haunted him every night since.

The looming form of a feathered beast, with obsidian fangs that glistened like antlers and red eyes that rivaled the fires in hell. A hound that stalked from across the red kitchen, rising to its full height and huffing its breath.

He could feel it. Feel the power of its liveness across his sweated brow. Feel its shadow encase him.

Feel some part of him grinning back.

"See."

He awoke with a start, ripping his eyes open but unable to remove the image of the beast staring back.

He let his panicked breaths deepen, his back soaked in cold sweat and his brown curls matted against his equally as clammy forehead.

Just a nightmare. That's all it was. Yet, for weeks now he'd been unable to remember the last time he had gotten a proper night's sleep. He was beginning to believe that uninterrupted sleep was just a fairytale. More likely it was just something he was no longer able to obtain.

Swinging his legs over the side of his bed, he glanced at the clock.

3:32 A.M.

Sighing deeply, he dragged his hands over his face, slowly letting them sweep away the frustration hidden beneath his clear, blue eyes.

He could try going back to bed, but based on weeks of trial and error, he knew it would do no good.

Sighing once again, his shoulders drooping like those of a beaten man, he rose from his bed wearing boxers and a plain shirt, and prepared for the day ahead.

This had all become a daily ritual: Rude awakening, shower, get dressed. To be entirely honest, the man didn't need to be fully awake to repeat the monotonous, robotic actions day after day-and that was a considerably great thing.

But this day was not like most days.

Standing in front of the mirror, he gazed at his reflection with uncertainty and doubt. His stubbled face sunken and shallow from countless hours of sleep deprivation among other things. He wasn't quite so sure how many more days he could do this.

And it was while the man contemplated this question that someone knocked on his door, and the significance of the day was suddenly noted. He didn't know what to think at first, but it was most definitely not something to smile about.

Cautiously, he approached the door, his lights still dim and dark. The outside light shone otherworldly, and he stole a peek through the peephole before he twisted the knob in renewed hesitation.

"Jack?" his voice rasped.

The door swung open and before him stood a well built man with dark skin and graying hair. Jack donned his usual trench coat and simple suit. Today he also wore his fedora, cool droplets of drizzling rain gathering in the creases.

"Watson," Inspector Jack Lestrade began, stopping himself when he caught the dread in the other's face. He closed his mouth, trying again with a softer approach; an attempt to coax the other past the threshold. "Will," he pleaded with a frown. "We need you."

Will Watson said nothing. What was there to say? Jack Lestrade needed his help, but after last time Will had a hard time stomaching the idea.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I'm just a doctor now," he began to close the door, truly sympathetic towards the inspector, but unwilling nonetheless.

"Wait!" Jack's hand jammed itself between door and frame, preventing Will from ending this conversation, lest he lose a finger or two. "If you won't help, then at least hear what I have to say next."

Jack swore he could hear a shuddering breath on the other side.

The door opened once again, and Will raised his eyes to look from the floor to Jack.

"I want you to meet someone. I know you haven't been sleeping very well and I'm concerned about you."

"This someone is going to help me sleep?"

"Yes. He's a psychiatrist...of sorts."

Will frowned. "Of sorts?"

Jack did not reply. The bulky man gave a smile, knowing all too well that Will was curious. Even Will, though not pleased at the curved expression, couldn't deny that Jack had him hooked. "Of sorts."

Jack continued to smile, and after a period of anxious silence Will managed to break. "Does he have a name?"

Jack nodded, droplets of water rolling off his arm as he fetched a card from his right-side pocket. And there on that simple card, printed neatly beneath " _Consulting Psychiatrist":_

Hannibal Holmes.


End file.
